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Published: August 31st 2004
camping in Zeeland
Kevin Gurr Prologue
I first visited the Low Countries in the spring and autumn of '96. Still a teenager but very independent and well off the beaten path by nature, I slowly peeled away the more glaring traits of the Benelux countries: the soft laws and strong liquorice, the tall blonds and wooden shoes, sheep and cows spread across vast green pastures under skies unmistakably like the ones I'd seen in so many Impressionist and older Master oil paintings. I had my first romance. It lasted two weeks. Began with Etta James'
At Last and ended in a
jeugde herbergen fighting over a chocolate bar. I discovered the fine Burgundian cuisine of Belgium, and truffles, pastries, mussels, frittes, waffles and beer, beer, beer and cheese, cheese, cheese. And developed an affection for Brussels, the mix of art nouveau and neo classical, landscapes and comic strips, Walloon and Vlaamingen, catholic and Turk. I have returned many times since then, collecting fond memories, hang-overs, beer coasters, new friendships and romances, learning a new language, studying in one of its oldest universities, riding the rails and pouring pints in a local pub.
Fast-forward to late summer 2004
Patrick, my old neighbour in
Leuven, will
soon sell his bar. He has arranged for a week off work and I fly half way across the country to enjoy some decent beer and stellar company. I leave a little red dotted line, Hiroshima - Osaka - Hong Kong - London - Brussels. Off the coast of China, sunset, an electrical storm ignites a velvety sky tucked between two massive cloud layers. From Hong Kong the plane flies north over Beijing before arcing across Mongolia and Siberia. Seated at the very rear, I wake occasionally to the sound of people's motion sickness in the toilets. I peek out my blinds over the Urals. Helios is licking at our heels. Daytime catches us up over Odense. Two hours later we are screaming over the Thames estuary. Soon I spot the millennium dome and canary wharf. A final hop across the Channel plants me at Zaventem. Patrick is waiting in the arrivals lounge. A woman from a local TV show is collecting travellers items and wants something of mine from Japan. I offer her a condom with an anime design package. Pat & I head to our favourite old restaurant, an outdoor courtyard on a man-made lake, where I order
dinner at the caravan - why am I drinking wine!?
Dirk is a wealthy man but prefers an old caravan full of funny little plastic figurines. He claims his wife Rachel does the decorating. Strangely, the town is named Dirksland.a huge salad with a puck-sized goat cheese and a goblet of Leffe Brun. I have arrived. We spend the day catching up. How's she and how's he and him and her and they and that funny old guy with the nose hairs and the couple who always fight in the bar. We walk around town and the park, two Buddhists ogling at young men, before grabbing a pack of frittes and heading to his cafe. We drink into the late evening. I catch up with old faces and am acquainted with new ones, conversing in French and Flemish and English. I chat up a handsome young guy named Manu. I'm happy. It's good to be home.
Thursday. There are no megaphones or sirens to wake me. Pat's new home is simple and cozy, four long narrow floors connected by a steep staircase. We have a late morning and take in a matinee, a Korean film,
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter And, a poetic narrative of a hermit monk's life on a small lake in the forest. Evening, Patrick fixes us mussels. We sip on some old Sherry until a phone call entices us out the salsa bar to catch
up with other friends.
Friday. I grab a
kip op de spit, a barbecued chicken to prepare some sandwiches for a picnic in Tervuren on the Royal lawns behind the Afrikaans Museum. Heavy low clouds race overhead dumping rain and moving on. We smell the roses and people watch. I miss all the dog walkers and all the bigger breads in Japan. Evening, we are packed when Rachel and Dirk arrive to escort us to his caravan in Zeeland. It is late and very quiet when we arrive and settle in.
Saturday. I am up early and out exploring the nearby dike, communing with the sheep. (not in a small backward town sense of the word) I feel so refreshed practising Tai chi atop the dike, surrounded by grazing sheep and green, green grass, overlooking a vast expanse of farm and sea and sailboats and a line of bushy trees trailing geometrically to the horizon. A church spire and windmill no bigger than my pinky mark a township a few miles away. The gang back at Dirk's green thumb trailer trash hide-away is awake, setting the table for eggs and bacon, toast and coffee. Midday, we leave Dirk
Old Pub, Rotterdam
lekker Heinekin op 't vat and Rachel snuggling in front of the TV, surrounded by stuffed animals, little smurfs and framed pics of Rachel. Pat & I cross the dams, an end of the world kinda atmosphere, connecting the islands of Zeeland, dozens of tall white windmills spinning, spinning, spinning.
Middelburg is quaint and tidy with a typically Dutch old city centre, a tall church, a city hall, impressive spires, cozy cafes with blond families licking ice cream cones. Under a grey sky we decide to have a soak at a sauna. A handsome youth excites an unlikely spire in the jacuzzi's skyline - two Buddhists without their prayer beads, indeed. Back in Herkingen, Rachel has prepared a barbecue. We sit out on the patio eating and drinking until the neighbours, a couple of German surf-bums, complain. The camp is full of Germans who refuse to speak any other language than German. I yell back at them, sorry I don't speak German. We tell some rude German jokes for good measure. Dirk suggests a tour around the camp. Pat & I hang back and smoke a spliff. On Dirk's tour, we are in quiet hysterics, trying to hold back our laughter. To think, I have
Dirksland
morning tai-chi on the dyke flown 24-hours, some 7000km across two continents to have a look see around a trailer park.
Sunday. Tai chi on the dike. Another of Rachel fine breakfasts. Then Patrick and I hop in the VW headed for
Domburg, a wealthy seaside resort town with a pleasant bike trail through pine forest along the dunes. Within minutes it begins to downpour. Seeking refuge under a crowded little and surprisingly gourmet tasting fish-stand, we witness a massive exodus of beach bums, a trail of cars, baby prams, flimsy see through rain coats, plastic beach toys, slippery flip flops. The rain stops just as suddenly and we continue out onto the sand, past the no bikes allowed signs, squeezing through the breakers. Only a handful of beach enthusiasts remain, those who have rented beach huts, sit reading or playing a round of cards. We sip a coffee and watch the waves and clouds. I suggest to my friend we explore
Veere before sunset, a small medieval town just outside Middelburg where the tourist trappings are better meshed into the locals daily lives.
Monday. It's just Pat & I. Dirk & Rachel and several other campers have returned to their weekday routine.
My friend suggests a visit to
Rotterdam. The museums are all closed but the parks are pleasant: roses, dog walkers, a drug pusher and a coke addict, shiny happy people, modern architecture. In the Centrum we poke into a pricey butcher shop for groceries and down a pedestrian street, we find an old cafe pouring small pints of Heineken on tap. A high ceiling, big old windows, old memorabilia, framed pictures and photographs, vintage advertisements and no music. The weather remains fantastic. We head west 18km to
Delft, burial place of the Dutch Royals and home to a very conservative community, I'm told. Way atop the town, dangling from a church tower, one may see all the way to Hoek Van Holland, Den Haag, Scheveningen, back to Rotterdam and half a dozen other small villages. The air is fresh and the earth is a green ocean. Late afternoon shadows of bicycles and table umbrellas and the city hall fall across the square. Tall youths pedalling one speed bikes zip in and out of the canal curbed streets. I am a cappuccino at a corner cafe feeling easy in the last few degrees of sunlight.
Tuesday. Agreed - no driving
today. We hop on our bikes for a look see of the nearby villages, a circle tour of Dirksland, Middelharnis, Sommelsdijk and Oude Tonge - old brick churches behind moats, narrow lego-like homes, a bakery with tasty apple strudel, a museum of bygone days and a cafe that serves a mild tasting local brew. We relax on the beach by the campsite before packing the car. I watch a fat little German boy running back and forth on the sand and a beginner windsurfer try to find her balance. Return journey, we pull off the highway for fish and chips in
Tholendike, a beautiful variation of the many 17th century towns in Zeeland. Patrick & I climb on to the dike and sit at a quiet bench to enjoy our take-away, spectators to a glorious pink sunset.
Wednesday, back in Leuven, well rested. Our plans for a pannekoek & Grimbergen lunch in the country soon fall short. Outside a cafe across form Sint Pieters, we are joined by one Patrick's student friends. As custom, we order another round. Another friend arrives and joins us, another round is ordered, and so on. One cup of coffee soon becomes a half
day of pints. No complaints. I am happy to see my friend surrounded by good people. The weather changes, the wind throws panic across the courtyard, umbrellas shaking, tourists scattering indoors. Our party heads up the road for dinner a few doors away. Pat fills me in on some of the group gossip. My Flemish isn't too smooth. I admire my friend. He is wise. He is a good judge of others, knows who will use him and who will benefit from his advice. He asks when am I moving here. It will be sometime still. A lump forms in my throat. I still dream of living in Holland, owning a scooter and a 2CV, a woonboot. The students, Pat & I continue to a few bars in Oude Markt. De Kelder stinks of vomit and sweat tonight. My companions are all hosed. I'm watching my limit very closely.
Thursday. quiet. there shall be no more adventures today. we eat and pack in silence. we drive to the airport in silence. the only exchange is to confirm if we have taken the right exit. Within hours, Patrick, Brussels, the Channel, Europe, all fly away outside my window seat. The
sky is clear and the earth green and rolling over Kazhakstan. East of Sichuan, a muggy reddish brown envelopes the view. It is one o'clock local time in Hong Kong, three a.m. in Belgium. I prefer to imagine time is suspended until I return.
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dave
non-member comment
wonderful. wonderful stuff. i've read them backwards and forwards....gotten misty-eyed at times, admired your bravery at others....i suspect i will always enjoy your work.